


The Braids Behind the Operation

by Black_Salt, RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Fluff, Geralt just has a nice time, Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, witchers purr we all know this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24942142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Salt/pseuds/Black_Salt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: After a battle with a harpy breaks his last hair tie and he winds up in the mud, Geralt decides to cut off his hair, only for Jaskier to jump in and save his white locks from their untimely end. With a little persuasion, Jaskier devises a way to ensure that Geralt never has such a wretched idea again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 455





	The Braids Behind the Operation

Rarely did Geralt ever emerge from a hunt without some grime covering him in the process, be it mud, blood, or something fouler, and this was no exception. Thankfully, this time it was only mud and the leftover feathers of a harpy. It had managed to claw at him a few times before he’d taken it out of action, but it had ripped the band which held back his hair. For a moment, he thought he’d emerge with a clean kill, not a tear or speck of dirt on him, but his hair had gotten in the way as he bent to retrieve a few of the larger feathers and he’d stumbled head over foot into a hollow in the dirt, sliding down the near bank and into the muck. He swore and flicked the mud from his arms. This time he had half a mind to just cut it all off and be done with it.

Jaskier frowned as Geralt wandered back into their campsite getting mud everywhere and trailing feathers from his hair. He could see how the mud had turned the usually pristine hair—his own doing, of course—into a dirty mess that clung to Geralt’s face and neck. Quietly he watched as Geralt dug through his bag in search of something, occasionally shoving the hair back out of his face only for it to fall back in a wet flop. When Jaskier saw the knife get pulled from the bag and held up to the filthy mess of hair he jumped to interject. “Hey, wait just a second!”

Geralt looked at Jaskier, knife poised in the air. “What?” he grunted. He was wet, he was cold, and he was in no mood to put up with any of Jaskier’s antics.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, crossing the campsite to tug away the knife from Geralt’s hand. “You can’t just cut off all of your hair just because it’s a bit dirty! Do you know how much effort I’ve put into keeping it nice for you?”

“This isn’t about it being dirty; it’s in the way,” Geralt contradicted. “And I just lost my last tie.”

He reached for the knife again, trying to swipe it back. It would be easier to manage this way, no worrying about his hair becoming a hazard, blinding him or getting tangled in enemy claws as it nearly had when the harpy made its dive.

“Oh excuses, excuses.” Jaskier stepped back, holding the knife out of Geralt’s range. “This problem is easily avoidable, you know.” He stayed on his toes, ready to dance out of the way again if Geralt made another attempt to take the knife back. He was only trying to save the precious hair from an ugly and brutal demise.

“It _is_ if you would give me the damn knife,” Geralt snarled. He stepped forward, made a snatch for it, but Jaskier kept it easily away. “I want none of your _games,_ Jaskier. Hand it over.”

“Hmm, no. Sorry.” Jaskier stepped back again and tilted his head. “But I could give it back to you if we made a deal.” He watched Geralt for his reaction.

Geralt draped a hand over his face and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. What did he want this time? A couple harpy feathers for new quills? That forty-percent commission he often joked about, finally come to fruition?

“What kind of deal?” he asked, resigned. It was better to just hear him out and get it over with. He’d learned by now that once Jaskier got his head wrapped around something, there’d be no peace for anyone until he had his way.

Jaskier’s eyes lit up. Lowering the hand that still held the knife, he began to explain. “I will give you back your knife _but_ you have to agree to letting me take care of your hair.” He saw Geralt start to grimace and rushed to continue. “I promise if you still want to cut it after I’ve taken care of it you can. I will only be a little sad and disappointed.”

He was already thinking of the different oils he could use and what braids he could pull off with all that hair. If Geralt agreed, that is. Otherwise he might have to do it by force.

Geralt could tell by Jaskier’s expression that he had no intention of following through on that promise. Nevertheless, he tilted his head back and took a deep breath, then he held his hand out, palm up. “Fine. Do what you want,” he grumbled. Much like cutting his hair, this was the easiest choice.

Jaskier smiled brightly, dropping the knife into Geralt’s hand. Pushing on his shoulders, he started to instruct Geralt on what to do. “Just sit right there while I get everything I need for this mess. Honestly, it’s almost like you try to make everything impossibly difficult.”

He walked to their bags to grab the brush, water skins, oils, and whatever else he felt like he might need to get Geralt’s hair back to its snowy locks. “Don’t think I can’t see you pouting over there. Just relax and try to enjoy it.”

“I’m never relaxed. And it’s called a scowl.” He tossed the knife at the dirt and watched it stick itself upright. There’d be no need for it now. As instructed, he sat where he was put and waited for Jaskier to gather his things. What he really needed wasn’t a scrub around the ears, but a good soak in the river. The problem didn’t begin and end with his hair.

Still, he had to grudgingly admit, he always came out the other side of Jaskier’s attentions in a better mood. It was nice. Unnecessary, but nice. He supposed the fact that it _was_ unnecessary was what made it so, but such things were counter to his practical nature.

Jaskier went about getting everything in order, idly humming and talking as he went. Pausing in front of Geralt, he frowned in deliberation.

“Perhaps it would be easier if you took off your dirty armor and clothes first? Of course, all of this would be easier if it was at an inn rather than the middle of the woods but oh well.” Jaskier left him to it as he continued to set up his supplies.

“I thought you were only going to mess with my hair,” Geralt called to him. He braced his hands on his thighs, eyeing him suspiciously. “What do my clothes have to do with that?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, walking forward so he could look at Geralt directly with his hands planted firmly on his hips. “It’s common sense. You’ll be taking them off anyway, and I don’t want all my hard work wasted because your hair gets dragged through the mud on your clothes. It’s not like I’m asking you to be naked.” He pouted, laying a hand on his chest as he looked heavenward dramatically. “Honestly, it hurts the way you doubt my intentions. As if I’d have to use such underhanded methods to get your clothes off.”

“It was a simple question.” To Jaskier’s satisfaction, he lifted the shoulder pads over his head and began undressing, putting his armour and clothes in a neat pile beside the knife. He took the time to wipe what mud he could from his armour and face with his discarded shirt. It needed a wash anyway. “Didn’t mean to question your infallible honour,” he added. He wiped at the mud which had crept its way down his neck. A dip in the river would be the next order of business.

Jaskier huffed, “Whatever. Go wash off in the river over there, and don’t forget to take the soap with you. Water can only do so much when faced with a literal dirtball.” He tossed the soap at Geralt as he stood up. “There’s a nice forestry scent, and then there’s the horse and fresh mud that you have going on.”

Geralt chuckled as he caught the soap. “Not all of it’s fresh,” he joked. They’d been camping for days, and with that came a certain level of dirt: a good, healthy coating of earth that one couldn’t avoid if they wanted to. He gathered a small glob of mud on his fingertips as he passed Jaskier by, and smeared it on his cheek with a playful smack: a petty revenge for his coercion.

Jaskier gasped as if he’d been stabbed. “ _Fuck,_ Geralt! Some of us like to have basic hygiene! And that means not having mud smeared all over our faces!” He raged internally, he couldn’t even get back at him with dirt since he was already covered in it. He would just have to get back at him another way.

Geralt’s mild laughter carried over the riverbank, trailing behind him. _Worth it,_ he thought. He plunged into the water and set to work getting himself clean again. The water was freezing, but Jaskier’s tongue stung much worse, and he knew he’d be in for an earful if he didn’t do a thorough job. Jaskier would take one sniff at him and hold his head underwater himself. He knew from experience.

As Jaskier watched Geralt leave to go wash off in the riverbed he shook his head fondly. Even with dirty habits like not washing himself for days on end, which admittedly was hard when you’re in the woods more often than not, Jaskier still cherished the relationship they had. Having already set up everything to take care of Geralt’s hair, he picked up his lute to play some tunes while he waited for the big grump to finish washing up.

About three songs passed when Geralt returned, dripping in his trousers and boots. “New song?” he asked. His hair fell over his face and he flung it back, careful to point the splatter away from Jaskier and his lute.

“Just whatever pops into my head.” Jaskier set aside his lute and scooched back, patting the space for Geralt to sit down. “I see you actually washed yourself thoroughly this time. Maybe I’ll get you something as a treat in the next town.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Geralt scoffed. He plunked himself down and started to wring out his hair. “There’s going to be a puddle here in a minute. If I were you, I’d move before I got my trousers wet.”

“Wow, did you bring the whole river with you?” Jaskier asked sarcastically, standing up. Once Geralt was done getting all the water out of his hair he nudged him to scoot over into a dry patch of dirt, sitting behind him.

Geralt moved, then crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knees as he so often did during meditation. “Now what?” he asked. He expected he’d be made to sit for quite some time. Might as well get comfortable.

Jaskier settled behind Geralt, putting his hands on the sides of his head to tilt it back slightly. “Now you’re going to sit there and enjoy it as I make sure your hair is nice and lovely again. Soap and mud isn’t very kind to it. Do you want me to explain what I’m doing?” He pulled out the brush and started to gently work out all of the knots.

Geralt smiled. “As if an answer of ‘no’ would stop you?” But it was fine. In spite of his occasional requests for blessed silence, he found Jaskier’s voice quite calming. It was easy to zone out and relax when Jaskier spoke at length about a topic.

Jaskier laughed, “No I’d say it anyways, this is important. Right now I’m trying to brush out this bird’s nest you call hair. There’s no point in putting anything in it when it’s all tangled up like this.” He continued working out the knots, occasionally holding the hair so he could tug out the stubborn ones. “And when I’m done with that I’ll put this oil in,” he motioned to one of the bottles on the ground, “Which will keep the moisture from the water in your hair in. Different oils do different things.” He smiled, it was nice being able to care for Geralt like this even though it was something small.

“Hmm,” Geralt replied. He closed his eyes, occasionally wincing when a particularly stubborn knot tugged too hard. Maybe taking time to brush it out more regularly wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Taking his time to run the brush from scalp to tip, Jaskier continued explaining hair care. “Brushing it would get some of the dirt out anyways, and really doing it at least once a day will mean it’ll be much healthier.” He reached down to grab one of the bottles, shaking a few drops in his hands to massage through the hair before continuing. “You’re lucky you don’t have any split ends. If you let those grow bad enough your hair will stop growing.” Jaskier gave a light tug on the hair for emphasis.

He grunted, then straightened his head upright again. “You’re joking.” How would split ends do anything like that? “And I thought you were supposed to take knots from the bottom; why are you brushing from the top? That smarts.”

Jaskier harshly tugged through a knot in petty revenge. “Oh and you know so much about taking care of your hair? I’m brushing from the top because your scalp makes natural oils for your hair, which is why brushing your hair regularly makes it healthier.” Jaskier already seriously doubted that they taught baby witchers proper hair maintenance when teaching them how to kill wyverns, but this definitely proved it. “I’ve gotten a lot of the knots out anyways, so stop whining so much.”

Geralt hissed. “And you know _so much_ about the care of _witcher_ hair. I might have some other special mutations. Might not just make my hair white.” He used to joke with his brothers that witcher mutations were the cure for baldness. Who knew what might be true. And even if something was true for them, he was the exception, having been subjected to further experiments.

Jaskier set down the brush, trading it for one of the smaller bottles. “Oh and is the special _witcher hair care routine_ regularly dousing it in monster guts and mud? Does your hair require only the freshest water from the holiest spring to wash it?” Rubbing the oil between his hands he rolled his eyes. “I’m sure your hair will be just fine, especially after whatever you’ve been doing to it all these years.”

“Maybe monster guts make a fine moisturizer,” he replied. “You’ll never know until you try it.” He laughed, picturing Jaskier covered in gunk, looking extremely put upon. It’d be a disaster for him if he ever let something like that happen. It’d be impossible living with Jaskier for a full week, no less.

Jaskier paused in shock. Just the very idea of putting monster guts on himself, let alone his hair, was enough to make him shudder in disgust. “That is a horrifying idea, and I can _tell_ it isn’t true because of how dry your hair is.” He began to rub the oil on his fingers into Geralt’s scalp, massaging it in gently.

Geralt sighed and relaxed again, let the feeling of Jaskier’s fingers take sole precedent for the moment. He let the comment about dry hair slide. Jaskier was seeing to that, anyway.

Jaskier smiled, rubbing his fingers over Geralt’s scalp with tender care. For someone who did even less than the bare minimum to take care of his hair, it was shockingly clear of things like dandruff or remaining monster parts. He made sure to not miss a spot, scratching gently with his nails.

Gradually, Geralt began to fall into a state like meditation. There was no threat nearby, no reason to be on the alert, and Jaskier’s ministrations were lulling him into a peaceful state. They shared a few minutes of silence between the trees, accompanied only by the sound of the gentle breeze, the birds, and the rush of the river.

Then, there came a new sound. Something that had no place in the empty woods.

Jaskier’s hands slowed on Geralt’s head, frowning in confusion. Was Geralt _purring?_ Choosing to stay silent, he increased the pressure he was rubbing with to behind Geralt’s ears, causing the purring to grow steadily louder. Biting his lip so he didn’t alert Geralt to the fact he was making the most adorable purring noises, he silently continued his routine.

Geralt leaned back further into the touch, eyes still closed. His mind was wandering off elsewhere, drifting in a to-do list from washing his clothes to returning for the harpy feathers later, then, steadily, to nothing at all. In a moment, his mind was completely blank, and he felt loose. Tingly, even.

Jaskier slowly stopped massaging his head, switching back to the brush. Making sure to drag the bristles through his roots, he slowly pulled it through the long white strands. An idea started to form in his mind as he watched how gone Geralt was, planning out the different parts as he continued to brush his hair. Quietly setting the brush down, he ran his hands through the now smooth hair, and began to pull it into separate sections for braiding. He gathered the hair on the right side of Geralt's hair, prepping it to braid.

Geralt hummed, frowning slightly as he cracked open his eyes. The rubbing and scratching was now gone. He blinked a few times, coming down from wherever he’d been. He straightened up again, having gone lax awhile, and resumed his purposeful meditation with good posture, clearing his throat.

Jaskier didn’t say anything, just continued to braid his hair. Internally he was cursing that the purring didn’t continue, but he was more preoccupied with the task at hand. Quick fingers weaved the locks of hair over each other, slowly adding more with each pass. Finishing the braid on the right side, he gently pushed Geralt’s head to the side so he could braid the left side easier.

A thick braid flopped onto Geralt’s back with weight. Curious, he reached back to pull it over his shoulder. It was a bit of a strain to see, but he caught a glance. He followed the braid up to his scalp, prodding with his fingers. “Jaskier, what is this?” he asked.

“A braid. Do you not know what braids are?” Jaskier didn’t look up from the one he was working on, deft fingers moving between each other as the braid took shape. “I’m almost done, so don’t touch them.”

“I _know_ what a braid is. _Why_ is it on my head?”

“It is there _because_ I’m doing your hair. If you leave it down while you sleep it’ll just get tangled overnight and then all of my hard work would be for nothing.” Jaskier finished the left braid, flopping it over Geralt’s shoulder. “Besides it makes your hair look _so_ pretty.”

Geralt made a face, picking up the two ends of the white braids. He couldn’t argue with the practicality of it but … he felt a bit … decorative. His face felt warm and he tossed them back with a light huff.

 _“Your_ hair’s pretty,” he grumbled in retaliation. Then he held his tongue, speaking a little too close to the truth for comfort.

Jaskier choked on his words, cheeks flushing bright red. At least he was behind Geralt so he couldn’t see his expression. Trying to make a desperate recovery, he stuttered, “Well—well of course my hair is pretty, I take care of it.” He looked away before adding, quietly, “I still think your hair is pretty, even when it isn’t braided.”

Geralt lifted his head slightly. Now _that_ didn’t sound like teasing. He turned, angling his face a little more backward, not quite looking at him. He licked his lips, mouth feeling slightly dry of a sudden.

“Thank you,” he said, “for the brushing and—the oiling, I mean,” struggling a bit as he tried to find the right words.

“Well that was the deal. I actually enjoyed it. It was nice, I haven’t had the opportunity to do someone else’s hair for them in quite a while.” Jaskier focused on his hands, avoiding looking at anything of importance. “If you’d like, I could maybe do it for you again? I know different braiding styles.” He cleared his throat.

Geralt nodded, rubbing the loose end of the braid absently as he looked off into the safety of the middle distance. “That’d be fine,” he said, thinking it would be very fine indeed.

“Alright then.” Jaskier said softly. After a beat of silence between them he stood up, groaning about his legs and joints, going about putting his stuff back into his pack. “I might just have to get a better brush if we’re going to be using it all the time,” he said with a wink at Geralt.

Geralt stood, rooted to the spot an instant following that. He’d seen Jaskier wink before many times, but always directed elsewhere. There was a strange fluttering in his stomach, and for a while afterwards, his cheeks felt much too warm.

As they drifted quietly back to their work, the wheels in the back of Geralt’s head started turning. He washed his clothes and left them to dry as he went back to the harpy to finish gathering the proof to take back to town for their coin. He climbed to the nest to take back the stolen trinkets that had gotten him the initial job: just a few shiny things like unattended axes, weathercocks, and washboards that had been laying about people’s farms that were otherwise safe from theft. Then, he stopped to pluck a selection of the choicest feathers. He hid a few away in his bag for later use, keeping one behind his back as he returned to camp. There he found Jaskier sprawled against a low rock, scribbling away in his notebook with such excellent timing.

“Writing something?” he asked, leaning over his head.

“Oh yes, an epic love ballad about what a hassle it was to get you to agree to letting me do your hair,” Jaskier replied. He glanced up to smile at Geralt before going back to writing. “Just some ideas for chord progressions, gotta write them down so I don’t forget them. I could explain them if you’re very interested.” He absently bit on his lip as he finished writing down his ideas. If any of these turned out well he could expand on them later.

Geralt hummed. “Don’t you think your notes look scratchy?” he asked.

Jaskier pouted, “Well what do you expect me to do about it? There's not exactly a market nearby we could go to.”

“Need a new quill, perhaps?”

“Ah yes because I can magically conjure a brand new quill out of my ass.”

Geralt dangled the shining feather in front of Jaskier’s nose, close enough to tickle, and dropped it onto the open page. “For you,” he said. “Thankfully not pulled from anyone’s ass, you’ll be happy to hear. Only from a wing.”

Jaskier was silent for a moment before he gently took the quill off the page. “For your sake I hope that wing wasn’t soaked in monster guts.” His cutting words were deceived by the overwhelming fondness in his voice. “Thank you Geralt.” A smile spread helplessly across his face.

Geralt smiled back and nodded. “Gut free, just for your dainty disposition.”

Jaskier huffed indignantly, holding the quill to his chest and glaring at Geralt, “Just because I don’t appreciate the feeling of monster guts getting everywhere doesn’t mean I’m dainty. Anybody would be considered dainty in comparison to you.” His glare lessened as he looked back at his new quill fondly. “Still, thank you. It’s a surprise that anyone as coarse as you would know which feather would make a good quill.”

“I’ve been around you long enough to know.” Then, Geralt looked at him from the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat. “Do you really think I’m coarse?” he asked.

“What? No way.” Setting his things aside, Jaskier stood up so he could be face to face with Geralt. Placing a hand on his cheek so their eyes met, he spoke. “I don’t think you’re coarse. Maybe a little bit rough around the edges, but no more than anyone else who would literally kill monsters for a living. I really do appreciate the quill, it’ll be nice for my songwriting. Besides,” he shoved Geralt’s shoulder playfully, “Would anyone that’s _coarse_ recognise when a quill is getting scratchy?”

Geralt’s face turned bright red and he looked at the ground. “I, uh … I didn’t actually know it was scratchy,” he mumbled. He’d just wanted an excuse to give him the quill. He rubbed the spot here Jaskier had nudged his shoulder sheepishly. Being caught in a lie, and subsequently complimented on it, made him feel nervously awkward and he’d lost his nerve.

Jaskier shrugged, “I don’t care. You still thought of me and got me a new quill. Although, I must say I’m surprised it _doesn’t_ have monster guts on it as revenge for the braids.”

Geralt peeked up and the jab restored him enough to crack a joke. “There’s always next time,” he said.

With the atmosphere back to being light and joking, Jaskier took a small step back from Geralt, only then realising how close they were. “You better not. I might never do your hair again if you do that.”

 _“Oh_ what a threat,” Geralt mocked. “As if you’d allow me to leave it bloody, with all those weeks of dirt in my roots, left alone. One encounter with a ghoul and you’d beg me to let you wash it, I guarantee.”

“How dare you imply that I do anything as lowly as _begging,_ I would at the very least wait until you had no choice but to accept my help, or make a bargain if I had to. Besides, you act as if you didn’t enjoy it when I treated your hair.” Jaskier said. He leaned forward with a challenge in his eyes. “I bet you’d ask me to do your hair for you again.”

Geralt tilted his head to the side fondly. “What is bargaining, but begging with a loss?” He chuckled. No, he couldn’t deny it had been enjoyable, just as he said, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be an ass about it. “What makes you so sure I’ll ask?”

“What makes you think that you won’t? Although, you may want to be careful if I do your hair while we’re in an inn, you wouldn’t want others to hear your _purring_ would you?” Jaskier, admittedly, had no idea if Geralt even realised that he was purring when he’d gotten his head massaged, but he wasn’t about to back down now.

Geralt sputtered and the fading blush returned two-fold. “I do not _purr!”_ he objected. What was he, a witcher from the school of _cats?_

Jaskier ducked his head to hide his smile “Well, if that wasn’t purring then I don’t know what was up with you. It was very cute though.”

“It _wasn’t_ purring,” he insisted. But the corner of his mouth crooked up. _Cute._ Better than coarse, at any rate. “I guess we’ll find out what it was next time, but I can assure you, it wasn’t purring. Maybe _snoring,”_ he supplied stubbornly. “I dozed off midway.”

“Ah yes, because snoring and purring sound exactly alike, my mistake.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. As if purring like a cat was anything to be ashamed of. “If it isn’t purring then you wouldn’t care if I did it again.” He _was_ going to hear him purr again, he was determined to make it happen.

“Fine by me. I bet three gold. I know for a fact: witchers don’t purr.”

“Alright look, this has been a long night; how about we try sleeping it off? And then in the morning I will take your gold.” Jaskier suggested. He broke out into a yawn, blinking blearily at Geralt.

It was the fakest yawn Geralt had ever seen. Even so, the evening was wearing on; it’d be best to wrap up the day. Besides, in the morning, he’d be three gold richer, and three times as smug. So he gladly laid out the bedrolls and made camp ready for the night.

When they lay down to sleep, Geralt shifted comfortably on his back, head pillowed in his arms. “Hope you’re ready to toss a coin to your witcher tomorrow,” he said, closing his eyes.

“How dare you use my own lyrics against me,” Jaskier murmured sleepily. He was snuggled into his bedroll and ready for sleep. “I’m not the one that purrs like a cute little kitten when he gets his head scratched, am I? Go to sleep.” With that he rolled over, putting his back to Geralt.

“Cats eat birds, little lark. Just a warning,” he said, kicking Jaskier’s rear with his foot. “Better watch what you say.”

“I thought that you were a wolf? I guess I’ll have to rewrite my songs, The White Wittle Kitten. Don’t make threats that you can’t follow up on.” Jaskier flopped back to facing Geralt. His hands were tangled up in his bedroll, so he settled for sticking his tongue out.

“You’re the one who called me a cat. And I don’t make empty threats. Now put that thing back in your mouth before I take it: cat got your tongue.”

Jaskier laughed, this was so ridiculous, “I can’t believe you’re making cat jokes, what would you do with my tongue anyways _oh mighty kitty?_ ”

“Eat it,” he said mildly, remembering the stories he’d heard people tell about witchers. Probably would taste like cow’s tongue, not that he’d ever really eat a human tongue. “Now shut up and go to sleep.” It wasn’t until several minutes passed that the innuendo struck him.

It was quiet between them as Jaskier tried his hardest not to laugh. A small snort escaped him, but he cleared his throat pointedly. “Very hot. Good night Geralt.”

Geralt merely grunted and tossed a nearby twig at him as he turned over to go to sleep.

Jaskier finally let the laughter burst out of him, echoing into the woods around them. “Alright, I promise that I’m going to sleep this time,” he said, before adding much more quietly, “As long as you don’t make any more jokes about my tongue.” Snuggling up into his bedroll he finally let himself start to drift off to sleep.

Geralt resisted the urge to kick him all the way to the river and counted himself merciful.

As the night passed uninterrupted and the sun began to rise, the forest began to come to life. Jaskier woke up, blinking into the weak light of dawn. Despite the pale blue sky, it wasn’t a chilly morning and he found himself enjoying the quiet serenity of dawn. Looking over, he saw Geralt was still in his bedroll, an unusual occurrence considering he seemed to get up before even the sun began to rise. In a split second consideration, he quietly got out of bed and walked over to Geralt’s bedroll. Plopping himself next to the sleeping witcher, he was pleased to see that the braids had held overnight. What a shame he was going to ruin them.

Reaching forward he placed a hand on Geralt’s head. He seemed to still be asleep.

Geralt shifted, disturbed by a touch. He patted around, expecting to find Roach's cool muzzle nuzzling him, and instead found something warm. He grabbed at it, then opened his eyes and rolled over, blinking in the early light.

“Shut up and be still, I’m going to prove that you purr and earn those coins,” Jaskier said. He watched Geralt wake up to the morning sunshine, and waited for his chance.

“What are you doing?” Geralt was already thrown off to see Jaskier awake so early, and before him, no less. Sleep still lingered, oddly heavy. Perhaps the climb up the tree and the fight had been more taxing than he’d thought.

Jaskier didn’t say anything, instead running a hand through Geralt’s hair. Ignoring the fact that he was ruining the braids he put in the night before, he went straight for his target while Geralt was still sleepy and relaxed.

He blinked again, then closed his eyes, settling back down on his bedroll. This was weird. Wonderful, but weird. Geralt tried to wake himself up further, but the gentle petting prevented him from summoning the will.

Victorious, Jaskier moved his hand more deliberately, going straight to replicating the gentle massaging and scratching that he’d been doing the night before. Even without oils it was easy enough to get into the pattern of gently easing his fingers through the thick hair. Once he got into the rhythm of massaging Geralt's head, he went straight for adding scratching behind his ear.

Geralt’s chest vibrated with an involuntary rumble. He nudged closer, angled his head to the side to move the scratch where he wanted it. Jaskier’s nails found the spot and coaxed a particularly loud bout of purring from him. His eyes shot open and he _froze_.

Despite noticing Geralt’s realization, Jaskier angled his hands and scratched a little harder to entice the purring to come out in full force. “How’s that for snoring?”

Geralt’s eyes bulged as the noise grew astronomically. His foot twitched and he bolted upright, bunching the fabric of his bedroll under his hands. He flushed until his ears turned pink and he bit his tongue as the mortification rushed through him. And still the purring did not cease.

Jaskier paused in his scratching, looking a bit concerned at Geralt's reaction. “Are you alright? I can stop if you’re uncomfortable with this.” He kept his hand idly stroking instead of the pointed scratching.

Geralt groaned and flopped back, covering his face with his hands. “It’s a fucking _purr,”_ he said, muffled from under his hands. A waste of three gold coins. “Fucking—!” He gave another groan and mumbled an incoherent gripe about the cat school, winter, and ‘goddamned _Lambert’_ under his breath.

“Empty threats hmm? I think your purring is adorable though.” To emphasize his point, Jaskier moved his hand back to the _spot_ and resumed his head scritches. “I’m looking forward to getting those three coins later.”

The purring resumed enthusiastically, despite Geralt’s sour face. He debated biting Jaskier’s hand just to prove he could make good on his word, but it was difficult to be angry at the moment. His body betrayed him, relaxing more and more, until he thought he’d turn to some boneless mass, the rumbling in his chest soothing as it was irritating.

“Stick out your tongue again and we’ll find out how … empty … my …” and then he lost the use of his own tongue, losing even the ability to make snappy remarks. The purr continued, unperturbed, and his eyes fluttered shut once more.

A smile threatened to split Jaskier’s face as he intently focused on that one spot. Keeping one hand on Geralt’s ear to fuel the purring, he slid the other under his head and moved the puddle of witcher from the bedroll onto his lap. When there was no immediate response from him Jaskier smirked.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Nn.” Geralt batted a hand at his face, but he was too drowsy to put any force behind it and it sunk back down again to his chest. He felt warm, dozy, and content.

Jaskier let it go on for a few minutes longer, after all, it wasn’t like Geralt got the opportunity to relax like this very often. Sadly, it couldn’t go on forever. With the sun slowly making its way into the sky they did have to pack up and get moving so they could get money from killing the harpy and move on to the next town and contract. With a sigh he stopped scratching, waiting for his witcher to come back to awareness. “We should really start to pack up.”

“Hmm…” Geralt replied. Then, “Can’t. Sleeping.”

Jaskier poked at Geralt’s cheek, “Nope, we gotta get going. If you can’t get up I’ll have to find a way to _make you_ get up. And that isn’t an empty threat like yours.” He pushed him off of his lap and onto the ground, standing up to stretch out his legs.

Geralt groaned as he was rolled over. His head hit the cold ground, but he refused to open his eyes. He’d been so comfortable just moments before; he didn’t want to give that up just yet. Stubborn to the last, he remained prostrate on the ground. When he moved or packed up camp was _his_ call—Jaskier was the one following _him_ around for stories. Confident in that logic, he again shifted onto his back and the siren call of the softness of his bedroll.

Upon seeing Geralt roll back onto his bedroll, Jaskier huffed. How lazy; maybe he really was a cat after all. Instead of kicking him into gear, Jaskier went about packing up the camp. It was a little slower than it would’ve been if there had been two people helping, but he figured he could let Geralt rest a little bit longer.

Eventually there was nothing else to do and he _still_ hadn’t gotten up. He thought for a moment about just how mad Geralt would be, but they really did have to get moving. Mind made up, he grabbed one of the water skins, and emptied it on Geralt’s head.

Geralt cried out as the cold water hit his ear and jerked upright. “What the _fuck_ , Jaskier!” he roared. He wiped his ear against his shoulder, stuck his pinky into it and flicked away a drop of water. “Bastard, you got it in my ear!” He tilted his head to shake it out and finally turned to glare up at him.

Jaskier blinked at him innocently. “Sorry,” he said apathetically. “I’ve packed everything all by myself, which was very fun thank you for asking. I’ve let you lie there all morning now come on, get up.” He poked Geralt’s hip with the tip of his shoe.

Geralt grabbed his heel to stop him prodding. Then he noticed that everything was gone. He looked around the camp and found it was true: everything had been packed. There was Roach standing by, bags at her side ready to take to the road again. Feeling like an ass, Geralt took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. He wondered just how deeply he’d been sleeping not to have noticed Jaskier moving around so much.

“It’s alright, you usually do a lot of the work packing up anyways. Besides,” Jaskier gave a cheeky grin, “I would be pretty lazy if _I_ purred like a cat and got head scratches in the morning.” He honestly didn’t care that much, one morning isn’t a huge deal. He’d be getting coins soon anyways.

“It seems I’m destined to never be dry for more than a few hours a day, this trip.” Geralt flicked a wet hand at him. “You’ll ruin all your hard work and wash the oil out of my hair.”

Jaskier hummed, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re right,” he said, “I should definitely pour it on your pants instead. Thanks for the idea.” Jaskier started walking back to Roach, “I can always just do your hair again tonight!”

Geralt rose off his bedroll and packed it up, following after Jaskier. “In that case, you might’ve missed a few spots,” he joked. Then more seriously, “but don’t try that trick with the water again or I’ll put you in the river.”

He attached his gear to Roach’s saddle, double checked camp to make sure they hadn’t overlooked anything, then, satisfied, he turned back toward the direction of the road into town. “Let’s be off then. Nothing left but to get these things back to the farmers and collect pay.”

“I think you may be forgetting something?” Jaskier asked. He held out his hand, making a grabbing motion with his fingers. “I believe you owe me three coins.” That’s what you get when you make a sucker’s bet. He smiled at the sullen expression on Geralt’s face.

“Hadn’t forgotten,” Geralt mumbled. He’d intended to pay him with the money he got in town. But since he was _so_ eager to carry around the extra weight, Geralt flipped the top off his bag and dug until he retrieved his purse. He fished three gold coins from it, held them at eye level, and gave Jaskier an exaggerated look as if to say, “There. Happy now?” before pressing them into his waiting palm. As if he could buy anything interesting in a little farming town with three gold coins.

 _“Shall_ we?” he asked.

“Yes, let’s go.” Jaskier dropped the three coins—hardly anything really, but it wasn’t about the coins—into his purse. Skipping forward a bit, he began to animatedly explain his thoughts on new songs that he had ideas for, not that anyone in a small farming town was likely to appreciate the depth and intricacy of his compositions. He was glad to be on the road again, ready for the next adventure.

Geralt hummed, listening to Jaskier’s happy rambling as they went. This was the part he liked best: the three of them on the open road, preferably with no particular destination, no people around to interrupt or darken the day by throwing curses or mud in their direction. Although, today a bit of mud might not be so terrible, provided it hit the right target. He wouldn’t mind maybe one more night of Jaskier’s expert attentions. And it _was_ a farming community. Lots of dirt and mud to throw. For once, they’d be doing him a favor.

Geralt chuckled to himself.

Jaskier looked over, “Something funny?” Happiness blossomed in his chest at seeing Geralt laugh.

Still chuckling, Geralt shook his head. “You’ll find out later,” he said. “Depending.”

A small noise of indignation escaped Jaskier’s throat. “I swear if this is some _bullshit_ like monster guts I’ll never forgive you!” He rolled his eyes, gently bumping his shoulder into Geralt’s. “Let’s just go and collect the money from the harpy contract. The things I have to put up with as your best friend,” he sighed dramatically before looking back at Geralt with a smile.

Geralt had laughed harder at Jaskier’s huff, but though he settled quickly enough, the smile remained. He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “I can promise you, at least for now, monster guts won’t be one of those things.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “One of those things? You know what? I don’t even want to know. Ignorance is bliss and all that. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was just another ploy to get me to scratch your head again,” he teased. Honestly he wouldn’t mind if he got to take care of Geralt again, but there are easier and cleaner ways to go about it than taking a bath in monster guts and dirt.

“As if I’d have to use such _underhanded methods_ ,” Geralt echoed, calling back the conversation the day before. He reached out and playfully scratched behind Jaskier’s ear. “Tit for tat.”

Laughing, Jaskier squirmed and reached up to grab the offending hand and push away. “One day you’ll stop using my own words against me, and on that day I will enjoy whatever karma falls on you,” Jaskier said. Still though, he didn’t let go of Geralt’s hand.

Karma. Geralt scoffed. Destiny by another name. Still, if it was destiny that put him on the road that lead to this day, to Jaskier’s hand quietly held in his, perhaps he might give destiny a second chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Pure marshmallow fluff. I recently joined a discord server for witcher stuff and decided to try out role play for the first time in many years! Shout out to my new role play partner Milo for his help in the role of Jaskier; totally excited to learn he was the genius behind Black_Salt with the hilarious kermit icon that has had a place in my heart since comment number one. Love me some kermit memes.


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